But it isn’t.
Instead, I watch Emma, trying to figure out the freckled, redheaded conundrum who barely speaks to me most of the time, is afraid of storms, and when I tell her to pick the music, chooses what is basically the lyrical memory of what happened between us eight years ago and the reminder that a part of me has always felt like we belonged together. I’ve just never known how to have her.
While I watch her, she’s watching me too. And as the rain pounds on the roof of the car, I have the uncomfortable feeling that she sees straight into my head. That she can sense exactly what I’m thinking. Can see the confusing mix of attraction and guilt and something way messier and more complicated than simplelike.
And when she nods and says, “That’s what I thought,” I’m stunned completely silent. She doesn’t seem like she’s waiting for a response from me, which is good because I’m not sure what I would say anyway. Instead, I put the car into drive and head towards Emma’s house as Taylor keeps singing her song.
By the time I pull up to the house ten minutes later, it’s like that moment outside the restaurant never happened. Emma tenses up with each clap of thunder, and her face is a mask of anxiety as I turn off the car.
“Don’t get out. I’ll come around and open your door.”
“Thanks, Jeremy.” I think I might be royally fucked up because my name on her lips has my dick standing up and taking notice. Willing it to calm down, I push my door open and get out to round the car and open Emma’s door. She hops out, slipping a little on the wet sidewalk. I wrap an arm around her back to keep her from falling. Keeping it there, we rush through the rain up the front steps of her house.
Stopping in front of her door, she rummages through her bag for her keys, unlocking the door quickly. She steps inside, turning to face me and lingering in the doorway, glancing over her shoulder with an uneasy look on her face like she doesn’t want to go all the way inside. I stand on the porch, not sure what to do now. Every instinct I have is telling me not to leave her alone. That it’s not just driving in a storm that she hates. I have a hard time trusting my instincts about people, but I give in to this one.
“Ems, do you want some company while it’s storming?”
“Really? You wouldn’t mind?” Her voice is filled with relief.
“Of course not. I’d like to stay with you.”
It’s the truth. I want to stay because I don’t want her to be alone, but there’s also another reason I’m still working out in my head. The ease between us is such a huge change from our normal interactions that I’m hesitant to leave. I’m afraid if I do,the next time I see her we’ll go back to the way we used to be—me trying to get and keep her attention and her doing her best to not talk to me. And the thing is, now that I know what it’s like to be easy with each other, I want it to always be this way.
Emma waves me inside and motions towards the living room. “I’m going to run upstairs and change. Make yourself comfortable.”
She dashes up the stairs and I wander into the living room. The last time I was here was eight years ago, when she was living here with Molly, Hallie, and Jules. Now she lives here alone, and as I glance around the space, I see how much has changed. It feels like Emma in here.
It’s ordered and calm, all soft colors and fabrics. A big comfortable couch is centered in the space, and bookshelves line one wall, covered in paperbacks and framed pictures. There are a lot of her and the girls, one of all of us together at Julie and Ben’s family lake house, and one of her with her grandparents, who I met once when they were here visiting and she brought them into the bar.
But the picture that catches my eye is of a little girl sandwiched between two beaming adults on what looks like a beach. I pick it up and immediately recognize a younger version of Emma, all red hair and freckles and a toothless grin. I can’t help the tug of longing at the obvious closeness between her and what must be her parents, or the way my mind travels back to what my life was like when I was that age. It was definitely nothing like this.
“They’re the reason I hate storms.”
I turn at the sound of Emma’s voice. She’s wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, her hair in a messy knot on top of her head and her face scrubbed clean. She looks cozy and warm, and I have the crazy thought that she is the comfort I have been searching for my entire life. I push it away, focusing on her.
Emma pads over to the couch, taking a seat, and pulls a blanket from the basket on the floor to wrap around herself. I sit next to her, hoping it’s close enough not to be weird, but not so close that I’m too far into her personal space. It’s possible I’m overthinking this just a little, but when you spend so much time analyzing every interaction you have with the people close to you, it’s a hard habit to break. I turn and prop one leg up on the couch to face her.
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
She lets out a long, slow breath. “I think maybe I would.”
Her answer surprises me as much as it makes me happy. It’s like we’ve made our own little bubble tonight, and inside it, we can be safe with each other in a way we usually aren’t.
“I’d like that.”
“It was storming the night they died. Just like this. I was eight, and both of my parents had to work late, so I went to my grandparents’ house after school. It was dark by the time my mom called to say they were on their way to pick me up.”
Emma stops talking then and looks down at her hands, seeming to collect herself.
Without thinking, I pick up one of her hands, sandwiching it between both of mine. “You don’t have to.”
She doesn’t make a move to pull her hand away. “I want to.”
“Then I’m here.” And I am. I don’t think there is anywhere else I’d rather be.
“It got later and later, and I couldn’t figure out why they hadn’t come yet. The law firm where they worked wasn’t that far from my grandparents’ house, but it seemed like they were taking forever to get there. It was a Friday—the night we usually ordered pizza and ate it in a blanket fort in the living room while we watched movies. I remember thinking they were going to tell me it was too late to watch a whole movie. I was eight, so thatwas obviously the biggest injustice I could possibly imagine.” She laughs a little, but there’s no humor in it.
“We never got to build that blanket fort or watch the movie. Their car hydroplaned and spun out across the highway. There was a truck. You can imagine the rest.”
